


More Than You'd Know

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Series: Tumblr Prompts [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff and Angst, because i only know how to write one thing, i just miss the dropship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 22:02:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14578566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: For the dialog prompt "Don't touch me; I'm trying to sleep."When she looked up at him again, his eyes were still looking down, and he carefully switched the towel to her other hand. She was exhausted and she was emotionally drained—that’s what she told herself when she found she was leaning towards him. Her head bobbed slightly; it was like some magnetic force was drawing her towards him. She’d felt it before, noticed the broadness of his chest and the strength of his arms in an observatory way, but never like this. Never like she wanted to just lean into him, rest. Never like she’d wonder what it would be like to be held, cradled.





	More Than You'd Know

**Author's Note:**

> *after 1x10, with the grounder virus and the Oppenheimer moment*

****Fourteen graves was now fifteen.

Clarke rocked back on her heels by Connor’s cot, her nails digging into her palms as she clenched her fists, her eyes sliding shut.

The bridge was destroyed, Raven and Finn and the others had made it back okay, Octavia wasn’t running off with the grounders and Murphy was trying his hand at being a good guy.

Wouldn’t it be nice if their luck could hold for longer than a half hour?

Clarke pushed herself up from her crouch, looking down at Connor for a long moment. She clenched her teeth and raised her chin, lifting her hand towards his still form. 

“In peace may you leave the shore,” she said quietly, her fingers hesitating above his head, “in love may you find the next…” 

Someone moaned from another corner of the dropship and Clarke looked over quickly before steadying her breathing and her hand. 

“Safe passage on your travels,” she repeated the words she’d memorized long ago, and her fingers brushed his forehead as she gently closed his eyes, “Until our final journey to the ground.”

She stepped back, swallowing the lump in her throat. She hadn’t known Connor, not well, not really at all. Still didn’t mean she wished him dead.

“May we meet again,” she said softly, meaning it.

Someone was coughing loudly and someone else was choking on their own blood; Clarke turned from the cot and the body on top of it. Sentimentality wasn’t a privilege afforded to her, and it hadn’t been since they landed on this unforgiving ground. 

Neither was guilt, or responsibility, but she felt both. Every grave they dug was an etch in her heart. When she’d first stepped out of the drop ship it had hit her: she was her father’s daughter, and she would keep her people alive. 

Fourteen—now fifteen—graves were reminders not only of the lives lost, but her failures. 

Clarke brew out a sharp breath, shaking the hair out of her face and set about the room. 

She propped her friends over, wiped their foreheads and cleaned their beds. Passed them water when they could stomach it, wiped it from their chins when they couldn’t. She grabbed Murphy and a couple others who’d already weathered the virus, told them to dig a new hole next to the others. They did so with reserved solemnity, and bore Connor’s body outside the gate with little ceremony. Clarke tried not to think about the blood mixing with dirt on her hands, or the stench of the dropship, just methodically dealt with each new problem as it presented itself, grateful for the distraction.

She eventually realized that no new patients were being brought in, and that the coughs were waning. A couple more hours and, when the tarp parted, the sun glinted through it. 

Clarke blinked at it owlishly, knowing that it meant morning, but disbelieving that so much time had passed. Everyone in her sick bay was sleeping; some were letting out groans through the haze of their dreams, but they were out for the count. 

She lifted a hand to her forehead, pressing her fingers to her temples and the pressure there. She wasn’t sure if her eyes were bleary with exhaustion or effort, but either way, her strength left like a wind had blown it out from her. She set her chin, straightening her back before pushing out of the dropship, giving her eyes a moment to adjust to the bright morning light. 

She hoped nobody saw her swaying on her feet. 

After a moment, she felt steady enough to walk towards her tent without stumbling. She’d almost made it to the tent when she heard her name being called. 

Not now. 

Now she needed sleep, empty dreams, and not the reminder of the mounds outside the camp. And surely, whatever Bellamy had to say could wait until morning. 

She didn’t turn, even when her name was called again, and Bellamy’s footsteps speed up as he jogged over to her. 

The tent flap didn’t even fully close behind her when it was pulled back again; Bellamy ducked into her tent behind her.

“I’ve been on my feet for sixteen hours,” she said, knowing her voice left no room for doubting the truth of her words, “so this had better be good.”

She moved as she talked, shedding her jacket and crossing the small tent to the basin at the other end of it. She felt, rather than saw, Bellamy’s presence, tracking her movements and noticing the things she wasn’t saying. 

He’d been doing that a lot lately. 

Watching her. 

More often than not, she’d feel his eyes on her face. Seemed he was always aware of her, always picking up on whatever unspoken communication she was giving off. Only problem was, she usually didn’t mean for anyone else to pick up on those signals.  

That wasn’t true. 

The problem was that she didn’t mind, that she actually appreciated it, and that she found herself grateful for the solidarity.  

Bellamy didn’t say anything, and when the silence stretched, she looked up from the basin. 

Which was a mistake. 

Because she was too tired, too emotional, too weary, to deal with the expression on his face. 

Clarke’s world worked nicely in quadrants, in carefully defined sections, in parcels that were separate, that were definite, and did not overlap. Those quadrants left no room for Bellamy Blake looking at her like he was worried about her. 

Her hands dipped into the basin, the dried blood crusting on the rim of the bowl and the water of it muddying with the mix of blood and bile and dirt. Clarke cleared her throat, looking down at the water, her hands swishing in it. “What did you need, Bellamy?” she tried again, deciding the ripples were easier to face than Bellamy. 

He shifted, his arms crossing in front of him. “Murphy said it was you who found Connor,” he said, his deep voice rumbling across her tent. 

Clarke’s hands stilled in the water and she pursed her lips. “I did, yeah,” she said, scrubbing her hands together again, forcing her mind to technicalities. “I don’t know how, or why; I thought he was doing better. From the blood on his neck, it looked like—”

“I’m not here for an autopsy, Clarke.”

She stopped short, her eyes lifting to his again. His arms were still crossed but he’d somehow moved closer, and Clarke could see the line on his forehead, where his brow was creased. His hands were clenched on his forearms, knuckles white with how tight he was gripping them. She nodded slowly, lifting her hands from the water and flicking them lightly. “That’s a relief,” she sighed. “Because I don’t know what I did wrong.”

She grabbed a towel from beside the basin, wiping off her hands. When she looked back at Bellamy, the indent on his forehead was deeper, and his jaw was clenched. The towel felt raw against her hands, but she didn’t fight the abrasion, focusing on the words she had to spit out. “I know, it’s my job to know, and you can get mad at me about it in the morning, but—”

“Why would I be mad at you?”

His interruption cut her off and she frowned slightly, studying his face again. Even through the haze of exhaustion, she could read the signs: tight lips, clenched jaw, controlled breathing…all it could mean was frustration. Not that she could blame him. His job was to keep them safe and hers was to keep them alive; she’d be frustrated too. She already was.  

She’d hoped to put the confrontation off until once she’d rested, but it looked like he needed her to say it now. “For letting another one of us die,” she said steadily, biting the words out like they didn’t affect her and she didn’t bear the weight of them. 

“Clarke—” he began, but she shook her head sharply. 

“I wish I could do this now, but I really can’t; I need to sleep and I need you to leave and I need to have some time to just close my eyes and pretend that I’m not letting us die, okay?”

Her words seemed to echo around the tent and Clarke scrubbed her hands harder. The towel was rough and it stung, but she could see flecks of blood from under her nails snagging in the material and she scrubbed harder. 

She didn’t hear Bellamy move, but suddenly he was right in front of her, his large hands hovering over her own and carefully reaching between them to grab the towel. The gentleness in his motion surprised her, and Clarke looked up in confusion. 

Bellamy’s gaze was lowered, his long lashes covering his eyes, but his face seemed…softer, now that he was this close. His jaw was relaxed, and she knew it was with the same deliberation as his hands over her own. She could see his pulse fluttering in his throat, and once he’d worked the towel free, he hesitated for a moment. She looked back down, her hands motionless between them, and Bellamy moved again. He draped the towel over his hands, and carefully reached for her. He pulled one hand towards him, cupping it in his toweled fingers, pressing the fabric against her red skin in a careful motion. His hands covered hers, working the towel gingerly, drying the water without trying to scrape it away. 

When she looked up at him again, his eyes were still looking down, and he carefully switched the towel to her other hand. She was exhausted and she was emotionally drained—that’s what she told herself when she found she was leaning towards him. Her head bobbed slightly; it was like some magnetic force was drawing her towards him. She’d felt it before, noticed the broadness of his chest and the strength of his arms in an observatory way, but never like this. Never like she wanted to just lean into him, rest. Never like she’d wonder what it would be like to be held, cradled. 

Her fingers were dry, but Bellamy’s hands kept up their steady pressure. She could feel the warmth of his hands through the thin fiber, the soft motion as he pressed his thumb into the pressure points in the flat of her palm, the dance of his long fingers over the back of her hand. 

She was exhausted. 

That’s why her head dipped, and her forehead came to rest on his chest. Why her eyes fluttered shut and she let out a long breath, why her shoulders dropped. Why she let herself rest, be supported, and didn’t worry about tomorrow. 

Tomorrow.  

Tomorrow, when she’d have to deal with the reality of another one of them, buried, dead on her watch. The thought shot through her like lightning and Clarke jolted back.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said briskly, grabbing the towel back and whirling from him. Because no matter how nice he seemed tonight, when he saw her shattered, it would hurt all the more in the morning, when he had to be harsh. 

She folded the towel methodically, steps away from him, staring determinedly at the ridge where his cheekbones met loose curls, rather than meeting his eyes.

“What did you need, Bellamy?” she asked, relieved that her voice held a semblance of normalcy. 

“To make sure you’re okay.”

His words were simple and she heard the truth ringing in them; her eyes leapt to his. He was staring at her with such sincerity, his eyes deep and his brow still furrowed.

And it finally occurred to her that her sleep-deprived brain had confused his protectiveness for frustration, and a part of her all but melted in relief. 

He wasn’t mad at her. 

He wasn’t condemning her for failing to keep them alive, for messing up and for the blood in the basin by her bed.

And if Bellamy wasn’t upset with her…then maybe she could handle tomorrow.

Clarke’s mouth was dry and even as her mind was whirling, she couldn’t find the words, but she needed to ask. “You’re not mad?”

Bellamy looked like he wanted to laugh or roll his eyes, but instead he just shifted, looking away from her, running a hand through his hair. “Princess, half this camp would be dead if it weren’t for you.”

He’d done it again, spoken with such intense sincerity, that she was speechless.

She nodded slowly, mind still processing. “I…I still need to sleep,” she said. Maybe it was sudden and maybe it didn’t follow, but it seemed like the most important thing to mention at the moment. 

“That’s a good plan,” Bellamy said, his voice somehow both deep and light, leaning back slightly and tilting his chin towards her bed. “I think you deserve it.”

“I do,” she said seriously, wondering why she hadn’t thought of it before. Just as she was turning from him, she noticed something like a smile, playing around his lips. 

Clarke knew she was tired, knew she’d somehow whiplashed from guilt-ridden to defensive to at peace to slaphappy, but she was too tired to make herself care. “Are you laughing at me?” she asked incredulously, turning back to him, and stepping shakily towards him. 

Her suspicions were confirmed when his expression schooled instantly, Bellamy’s chin rising and his lips forming a determined line. “Never.”   

“You’re laughing at me,” she sighed, wishing she could find it within herself to care, “Like you did on Unity Day.”

Bellamy did smile then, a grin that leapt across his face before he could catch it, shaking his head and looking away from her. “Surprised you remember that, over how busy you were trying to pretend you could keep up with the rest of the kids.”

Clarke blinked at him, registering that he was saying something, probably at her expense, while she’d been noticing the way the freckles around his eyes bunched up when he smiled. 

“I’m a whole barrel of laughs,” Clarke said petulantly, and before Bellamy could respond to that, she found herself blurting, “You should do that more.”

Bellamy cocked his head to the side. “Do what more?”

“Smile.”

He rolled his eyes. “Come on, Princess, I smile all the time.”

She shook her head solemnly. “Not at me.”

“More than you’d know,” he muttered, and Clarke wanted to ask what he meant by that, but she was tired and apparently following the flow of conversation was not her course for the night. 

“Okay, then not like that,” she said.

“Like what?” Bellamy asked, amusement lacing his voice. 

“Like…” Clarke shrugged, her mind racing to find the words. “Like Christmas. Or sunshine.”

It was somewhat rewarding, after him rendering her speechless so many times, to watch his face when she spoke with simple conviction. His face ducked and he shuffled backwards a bit. Clarke dipped her head to look up at him, and her jaw dropped. 

“Oh my god,” she said reverently. 

“What now?” Bellamy asked, his voice such an odd combination of gruff and sheepish that it took everything in Clarke not to squeal.

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m absolutely not,” he said quickly, and Clarke raised an eyebrow. Without even thinking about it, she lifted her hands to his cheeks, settling them on his jawline and nodding proudly to herself. 

“You absolutely are,” she said smugly, the heat of his skin under her hands confirming her suspicions. Victorious, Clarke moved to slip her fingers from his face, but Bellamy’s hands came up, his long fingers circling her wrists to hold her there. Her eyes rose from the blush of his cheeks to his eyes, in time to see them flutter close. He was leaning into her touch; she could feel his pulse under her fingers at his neck, and it was back again, the magnetism from earlier. But this time, she stayed. 

Moved her fingers slightly, her thumbs dipping away from his jawline to count some of the freckles on his cheeks, her eyes tracing over the cleft in his chin, the scar on his upper lip, the curls just centimeters away from her fingertips. 

And she stayed.  

When Bellamy’s head lowered, when his back bent and his forehead came closer to rest against hers. When her eyes slipped closed too, when she leaned back into him, when their hands and heads touched and they breathed the same air and just were. When she kept holding him, and he willed strength back into her. 

She stayed. 

Eventually, Bellamy’s hands dropped from her wrists, only for them to reappear a moment later on her shoulders. When she blinked up at him, his expression was unreadable. Unreadable, but content. 

“Come on, Princess, you need to sleep.”

He was right, of course, and she nodded her agreement. In truth, she would’ve agreed to most anything; she hadn’t felt that relaxed since before she could remember. But she realized he was trying not to laugh at her again, and it was because she hadn’t moved a muscle. 

Just because she was so close, and because she was too curious, she slipped her hands up his jawline and back into his hair. She indulged herself for a moment, toying with the curls there, before she let her hands drop. 

“Sleep,” she said tiredly, “that’s for mortals.”

“Luckily for us,” Bellamy backed her up slowly, guiding her to her bed with a careful and steady hand. “I happen to know where we can find one of those.”

“Poor thing,” Clarke murmured. “It must be exhausting to live under the shadow of death.”

Bellamy shrugged. “I’d say she bears it pretty well.”

“That’s sweet,” Clarke mused, as she sat on the edge of her bed. She looked down at her shoes, frowning at them; they seemed so far away. 

Bellamy might’ve chuckled, but then he was at her feet. On his knees, carefully undoing the laces of her boots, and pulling her feet out of them. 

Clarke tilted her head at the image of him, kneeling. “Never thought I’d see that.” 

“Yeah well, don’t push your luck,” he said, lining her boots up neatly near the end of her cot. He tapped her feet lightly, pushing them towards the cot. “Come on, Griffin, help me out a bit; you need to sleep.” 

“Perchance to dream?” 

“Nah, just sleep,” Bellamy said amusedly. “Now come on.” 

“You’re supposed to say ‘ay, that’s the rub’,” Clarke sighed. “But I guess I forgive you.”

She swung her legs up obediently, but Bellamy looked entirely too proud of himself for that, so she stuck her tongue out at him, just for good measure. He rolled his eyes at her, but he mustn’t have been too put out, because he reached to the bottom of the cot, and pulled a blanket up over her.

Clarke nestled into her pillow as strong hands tucked the blanket under her chin; her eyes drifted close and just as the world dimmed, she felt a brush like a prayer. A rough finger, traced along the side of her face, from just above her eye till just above her chin. Try though she might, Clarke couldn’t make her eyes open, and she huffed. “Don’t touch me; I’m trying to fall asleep.” 

Bellamy rumbled with laughter, a quiet sound and a content one. 

“Goodnight, Clarke,” he said, and his touch was gone. 

“Goodnight,” she managed, amazed that her mouth could form words. 

She tried to wait for the sound of the tent flap closing before giving in and falling asleep. But it never came, nor did the rustle of a guard’s uniform. She drifted off to sleep with a smile playing around her lips, grateful for a warm bed and sweet rest, and a boy with a smile like sunshine, who was watching over her. 


End file.
